On Having A Cross Border BDSM Relationship During Covid

There is a point of comparison between how the safe drama of BDSM and ,the shockingly intense effect a pandemic both weigh on a relationship. One comes from a place of fundamentally healthy intensity, the other forces you to find something to cling to that’s good feeling, just to stop the inherent emotions of a crisis from making you crack. Add the first burning flare of a new relationship and it’s been months of yearning. It’s been a year.

Oh my god, it’s been a year.

We’ve gone from from first kisses at midnight and taking travel for granted, to leaping through hoops to even get to hold hands. I’m writing this in the melancholy cloud of self pity that comes from not getting to spend our One Year Anniversary (TM) together in person. But there’s a certain awareness that at least I have the capacity, despite all this distance, despite getting my own go with Covid, to feel something close to blessed.

Blessed is an odd word, since how we casually use it mostly means fortunate. I don’t think there’s a deity giving out favours, but I can see how when things feel unfair in your favour it is more comforting to believe it. In our case, Silver and I are fortunate in two senses, that he is the one I get to miss so very painfully, and that I get to miss him like this. Not everyone gets even what we have.

Not that I expected it same time last year, but let’s do a retrospective of how we got here: From scratching an itch with a cute sub guy, to deciding there was a pretty good body of evidence this might be my Person.

I thought fretting if I was rebounding after a break up in 2019 was going to be my biggest pathos. I though Silver was Mr. What I Needed Right Now, and I’d work the rest out later. At the time, and you can see it documented month over month, I figured slow was better. At the best of times I am good at feeling things hard, and I wanted to be careful with my heart. I mapped out a month by month calendar of careful escalations. But, people plan, and God laughs, so the saying goes. My commitment to the Aesthetic has nothing on the adaptions we must put love to, to live in and with a pandemic.

And I think of the sentiment, the impacts we put of old concepts: Dating. Courting. Love letters. Shame. Adventure. Simplicity.

I already mentioned that Covid had a sort of time machine effect on relationships, so I suppose I expand on that point. For good or for ill, this has been a ridiculously romantic situation. I don’t mean to say that the sufferings of billions is my immature backdrop. This is no renting an antebellum plantation so the columns will look good in your wedding photos.

This is romantic in the sense that the obstacles add a conflict you have to face together. Where everything is a monumental struggle, so the least bit of your efforts to reach each other has all the more impact. And it’s a lot of yearning, and time to think about missing them.

On Romance

I wish I had saved the origin, but in the ship wars that spill over into Twitter, a fragment of an argument slipped past: Romantic, in fiction, isn’t actually the model of what a relationship should be, it’s drama. Drama necessarily mean a certain degree of angst, discomfort and pathos. Stick “Grand” in front of the word “Romance” and you probably can guarantee deadly peril too.

In this pandemic, everyone flails around for a story to make sense of it. The Spanish Flu and the Blitz are popular. Sometimes we trot out war metaphors from other conflicts. I see the point, to a degree. I had not expected food shortages, sheltering in place or blocked travel would be part of my adulthood. I hadn’t expected to get sick in a pandemic, though I suppose I assumed there would eventually be some acute calamity or another. I just thought it was going to be a natural disaster or a personal crisis. My imagination stretching to earth quakes and car crashes, not long, long months of nothing to do while everything happened.

Covid, ultimately, is going to be Covid, in the stories after this. We’re nowhere near out, with it’s long tail aftershocks on the economy predeicted to last long after we are all hopefully stabbed twice and set back out into the working world. But, for now it’s the older meaning of the term “romance” we seek comfort in, meaning a story, often grand in scope.

I am sure it wasn’t Tolkien’s Hobbit that made participating-under-protest Bilbo the first hero self aware of the unpleasantness of the practical details of adventure. Nonetheless, the Hobbit and it’s titular species are the lives of most of us. Sure we have personal pains, but most of us go out of our way to avoid anything epic, because we are not self destructive.

And yet, in the awful can we farm a lot of just plain awe.

We are all aware of the fact that bad things breed good chemistry. The shared experience of suffering, even ritual and light suffering, bonds you to new friends and compatriots fast. Much has been said of the addictive nature of rollercoaster relationships, no matter how much they tend to behave a lot more like steamrollers to our lives and real happiness. So, what about the inherent drama of kink?

I believe that one facet of BDSM’s appeal is putting that lightening in a bottle. Like taking up sword fencing or tae kwan do, or immersing yourself in a nice novel, you get all the advantages and high energy of what would be bad otherwise, and none of the messes. A beating ends with check ins and aftercare. A scene almost always begins with both parties having the understanding of the ride the are on and where it is going. BDSM relationships really don’t get much worse than vanilla ones can, but can have a significant uplift than the alternative.

Perversity breeds a language for obsession, foreplay for days, and investment. I know a lot more kinky folks who are REALLY into their partners and the relationship itself, than vanilla couples. (I think people who are living a $Religion Lifestyle are the only ones I see otherwise so reliably obsessed in building a big thing off being together)

Now try being kinky, dating with a lot of firsts that are symbolic even for vanilla folks, and then have a pandemic crash through your world.

Let us be clear, in these times I exist in a position of relative safety and advantage. I survived Covid with only mild respiratory damage. Silver and I work from home, and live a not unreasonable commute from the only easy to reach neutral ground between our nations in the world. We even managed a visit in October, because I could afford a $250 flight and a $60 uber, where I plucked his technical virginity.

After, I confided that I had not expected it to impact me as much, to feel so bonded. I had lost my own technical virginity with the speed and enthusiasm of a teen breaking in her first pair of Doc Martens. Literally. I snapped my hyman like I was trying to make something transform from painful and chafing, to the badge of experience and the power I wanted fucking to symbolize. Control. Freedom. Artificially extended childhood through “purity”, as the larger body of adults recommended, constricted.

So it was bewildering to feel something a little more real just from popping a little rubber bag on his cock and making him ejaculate inside me. And it was reassuring to be told that he also felt like something relevant had passed between us. Uh, did True Love really wait? Snrk.

I love him, rather intensely. Did I mention that?

In November, after passing quarantine confinement for the first part, we made a last pilgrimage to the Peace Arch. The sky, which had turned Cascadia grey by my return home from Washington and dumped water daily, gave us a break for one perfect Friday afternoon.

Understand, of course that this park meeting would be unthinkable if we didn’t lead very constricted lives. Numbers of infections are watched in British Columbia and Washington. Even so, this was the tail of the year, with few leaves in the trees and the earth even more muddy than our first May meeting. And the park had only a few well swaddled few, more border guards than guests.

These days, there’s a significant pressure, and for good reason, to be as good as possible. The intimacies of my picnics feel as daring as the carnality of my sex life, if not more so. I worry that I made my calculations wrong. I worry that if I tell you, even here in a fairly shielded sex blog I will end up earning some sort of scarlet C. And guilt too, because some people don’t have a means to see the one they love at all. And woven into this shame, is a sort of awareness of the larger struggles from time past.

So much hope and want, all poured into one thermos!

I made oxtail soup from scratch in my roomate’s instant pot. Simple, carrots, celery and onion, the latter diced nice and fine, and a little tomato paste and herbs from the last on my balcony. I wrapped the thermoses in a pretty tea towel, making the most simple thing we were stuck with as special as I could. He brought pumpkin pies capped with Chantilly cream, rich and perfect. After the bandstand proved occupied by one of the few other people (the seemed to be doing some sort of group therapy), we stole away to make a plastic tablecloth and blanket nest at the door of the little building that serves as a kitchen-for-rent in better days.

I wish I could tell you of some great erotic secret game we played, but the truth was I had a migraine that made me ache until he began to stroke along my back and neck. Though there was more than captured kisses, there wasn’t the full lavished torments to the degree we sometimes do.

The truth is that I’d seen that arch that’s a monument to our respective nation’s diplomatic peace a good dozen times now, and until now I though it was trite and over stated. It’s League of Nations styled optimism that the First World war got it out of our system at long last, refreshed just this year with new white paint on a hulking structure that’s too public to pretend its a lost gate to Narnia, or some such. But there, framed by trees shedding their last leaves, and cuddled close against the wind, the fact that the gate was essentially closed hurt. It was a family heirloom you took for granted as “that old thing” now pawned, or lost in a fire.

Here we were, almost quaint enough to make the most Family Values oriented elder cluck indulgently at us. This picnic was all we had. Sure, I wanted him back in a rubber bondage sack with his hard cock peeping, and every fiber of his being focused on what I might do next, but it’s going to take either great age or a traumatic brain injury to make me forget that afternoon.

The soup arrived still so hot it burnt my tongue, but I want to make it again. And I can’t tell you if the pumpkin tarts were the best I have ever had, or if that was the moment’s energy giving them the flavour, but ultimately, if my meat prison is giving me intense happiness in a pile of things I would have previously thought were mundane, I will take it.

We hoped hard, in a few weeks, things might stay as easy as they had in October and maybe, just maybe, one more meeting to end the year. One more hand on throat, midnight kiss to seal 2020 with the same hope we entered it with.

And after.

The panedemic got worse, of course. We know, you’re reading it with me. The optimism that I had thought perhaps to risk an imprudent NYE rendez vous all abated. I MISS HIM. I won’t see him or hold him or pin him in place and hurt him for months.

The park’s awash in the sky’s further blessings: wet snow, and here I am making a tearful record. I shan’t fill his ass with anything, but toys at my direction. I have to reassure my beautiful, perfect man that my crying isn’t some ill he did me, but the awareness of wanting.

And the pictures we send back, well, his pale face and perfect dark blue eyes have a little sad. The hair he grew out long enough to yank will have its trim. I suspect he just packed the bounty of gifts he wanted to get me into a big box an freighted it to me, instead of getting to watch as I blushed redder and redder at each unwrapping and put kisses on his neck to hide my face.

There’s a rubber armbinder still in tissue, waiting for me to join him and strap him in. There’s promise unrealized, things I hope for. Even our relationship, at one year at the end of the month, has crazy holes we will have to wait to back fill. We have spent barely three days together in a row, and still need to determine if four is too much. I have to let time keep going forward to get there.

I will comfort myself. I make the effort to dress and pretty up as if the pandemic barrier might drop at any minute and I would need to drop everything to see him. (with laws in place, I doubt it will go that fast). After January, I will buy a short whip, and take it to the nearest park to learn to aim it, so the next time we are alone, even if he’s stolen from me again, I can send him back with welts.

I will progress as best I can with what we have for now. And it will be some comfort that although hot soup and a picnic are now the height of decadent luxury, they feel like much, much more.

Taking My Submissive’s Virginity & My Feelings -An October Visit to Silver (Part I)

Taking My Submissive's Virginity, mending buttons, different ways to dominate him, and love

This is going to be long, and entirely true, a diary trying to fit three days into some coherent narrative.  After I started writing I realized the average reader didn’t want to gobble up several thousand words in one post, so I’ve broken it into parts.

The button on his coat set itself free, and I took the sewing kit he never used, but had in stock in his usual bachelor practicality. Then, with a needle and cuss, I mended it.

I said it would take two minutes, and it was more like fifteen, but I was happy to do it all the same. My slightly more than weekend visit had been an indulgence for me, but it’s in my nature to find pleasure in the smallness of the mundane.

When this happened we were a few hours away from carting me off to the airport, and the two weeks of confinement I am enduring while I write this. The obvious response on my part, with very little time left, was to have a “what does this all mean?!” relationship conversation and follow it with a blow job. I might be a bit of a yoyo sometimes.

After I talked about hard questions, like where this is going, desire followed. Posed like a man proposing, one knee down, one up, I suck his cock into my mouth. While I do so, his hands grip the marble edge of the counter behind him. He’s holding himself exposed and vulnerable for me by instinct, and more than a little conscious commitment to the spirit of the law, if not the spoken letter. I haven’t told him to act as if he’s invisibly bound, but he adopts it as naturally as I stir need in him.

He always submits to me.

I think, given a choice, he would prefer a hand job. This blow job definitely isn’t about what he wants, more satisfying my own cravings. I like using my mouth. I’m not so skilled, but the nerve endings and the taste, from oral, are both deeply gratifying to me. So he surrenders to this, accepting his place is to be used how I feel like it.

This time, to my delight, he also makes  few thrusting forays, fucking my mouth. If I was a bit more relaxed I would rub my clit and come with his cock in my mouth. I like his taste and shape, and how he feels, even after four days of exploring desire, he still gets fully hard inside me.

Unfortunately, for various reasons I am still holding an unplaced thread of anxiety, and yet, in his company he has made the pain and half body cramps of the migraine I have had for 4 weeks finally leave me. We’re in a pandemic and work (in an office, back in Canada) is bothering. A doting, beautiful submissive man in another country is a treat at the best of times, and an extravagant luxury in the current circumstances.

I took my property’s technical virginity.

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Sonnets for my submissive

Sonnets For My Submissive V

I know why Fenris ran the sky after such prey.

The Sun

My lover’s lines are gilded in the light
And from the window, the warm rays caress
My hands grip his cream wrists and thighs squeeze tight
As firsts now gathered, my right as Mistress

Fill me twice within four days, and come quick
Your release my claim, your cock my possession
Fit where I ache and wetness makes me slick
Taken to satiate my obsession

You live to suffer & to offer joy
Vulnerable in every drop I drain.
Made for this, alluring man, my eager toy,
Who pleases the eye, & as much my brain

But in this golden hour I seek to share
Let the sun kiss also, where I find fair

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Sonnet III for Silver

How can my joy hurt such to make me weep?
Your first words to me at each starting day;
Your last spoken when you stop to sleep.
First in my thoughts, but so very far away

Lithe, love, light and pale as the summer grass;
Clever fast and lusty, gifted in your wit.
Patient with my heart: sharp & frail as glass
Perversity met, matched- as a glove may fit.

My whims & needs as much your fondest treasure
You I may wanton toy, hurt & restrain
& yet you strive to bring me more pleasure
And smile to give your thank yous for the pain.

So if this year’s chances keep us apart
To have you is well worth a heavy heart


I caught myself crying again, while doing laundry. It’s a scary time, with the uncertainty of what might be, between going back to work after sick leave, watching the rather grim situation in the US and the world. But, love is such that, suck or not, I would rather miss him than not have him to miss.

He stoically puts up with my poetry.

Polishing Silver

Silver is, among many things, my muse. Lurid and vivid sexual creativity was one of the gifts the fae left for my birth, and love makes me into a better artist.

Every Sunday, minus when he was road tripping to family, or those weekends we managed an in person park picnic, we have Sunday Worship, aka furious mutual masturbation over webcam, aided by teledildonics via the good people at Lovense, and the quieter cooperation of the manufacturers of the Pavlok.

This particular weekend, a Hush was buried in his ass and the app hooked to my phone so he could experience vibrations entirely under my control. I was squeezed into a blue latex number that didn’t just hit him in the fetishes, but punched the target through the wall. It also appealed to me on two axises of desire: my long standing teasing kink (Mercy Maria uses pro-domme work to get herself a reverse harem, I seriously consider stripping as a sexual outlet), and my newly discovered interest in the medium of rubber clothing, itself.

And regardless of the props or where I decide we go this time, my mouth is always spinning out filth: alluring, lewd and descriptive. I’m privately very self critical of my abilities as a hypnosis mistress, but I do have a gift for the erotic gab, and Silver was enraptured at my crooning and storytelling.

The fantasy I almost made Silver hands free cum to last Sunday was telling him about sharing him out to my domme friends. It wasn’t the detail of hands touching, the excess or the cruelties. It was describing him earnestly looking to me, to be sure he was serving them properly, like I wanted. 

It’s that “you endure what they, do but you know it’s all about your Miss” that gets him so bad.

Ultimately Silver is a romantic, in that he doesn’t want to serve any random domme, regardless of having certain aesthetic fetishes. He wants that connection to one person. I don’t think I can fully express how sweet that is.

When he is screaming in mixture of lust and distress because he thinks he is about to cum without permission, well… that’s really gilding the lily.

I am also very big on the intimacy of a singular “person”. I fail at “proper” poly, although I can do some group activities just fine, but the idealized network of loves and separations of relationships in one’s sexuality just… does not work for me. I fall in love and that person is writ large in the sky.

Silver. Silver. Silver. I actually slipped into love more gently than with anyone so far. I am lucky about his amiable patience with my slower roll to “commitment”, but in turn it was not quite the same 2 by 4 to the face that some of the past experiences were, and yet… I prefer coming to love him slowly. I prefer the crush kindled as a certain warm affection that grew and grew until the hearth of my heart was lit bright and hot.

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My Property Fills and Sucks At My Command

He’s bent over the table, the largely featureless black dildo well engulfed into his mouth, base steadied with one hand while the other edges himself at my command. Around his waist, straps further anchor an inflatable plug, sitting with a ring set such around the root of his cock and behind his balls that both are delivered up invitingly.

Silver is American and lives somewhere in awkward, but plausible visit distance from my own base in Vancouver. This was perfectly ok for a weekend long visit, until Covid19 happened.

The border has sealed itself to non-essential travel and it is thus months before we can expect to satisfy our mutual yearnings. A global pandemic doesn’t care for young love, much less the kind that stubbornly won’t call him my boyfriend but uses the L word, and professes to own him.

Pretty much from the word go, or honestly beforehand hand, based on his behaviour, he handed control of his orgasms to me. For Silver this has a distinct psychological effect, taking him from a dry sort of delivery of witticisms and reserved fiestiness to a more open and needy state. Both versions blush easy, but Priapus doesn’t have anything on the eager, thick erections a week or two of nothing but edging gives him.

Covid19 nailed both of us at about the same time, despite being apart long enough to have gotten it from separate sources, and what had supposed to be a little interlude ending in an orgasm at the end of March hit a hiccup where lust wasn’t really something either of us was inclined to feel. Now it has passed through and so a game I had started in mid-March got an extension.

He has dutifully banged out over 10k words in the last short span, the price to be set for consideration for an orgasm. I am happy with him.

I told him that regardless of completion of the goal, on Sunday he would be filled up at both ends and edging – I prefer tasks like this, that help improve my property but also aren’t a chance to fail as much as a chance to succeed. In the meantime, after we cleared our respective cases of Covid19 he has been locked in a cycle of getting turned on by me and edging himself silly.

I test him with sadistic talk, asking what if I didn’t let him come until quarantine was lifted? We don’t know when that is, and the border prevents even the least contact until then, so we are already luridly imagining that intense moment. Until then I am using technology to social distance, amused by my governments explicit suggestions that you can still be together, even apart through video chat.

My remote control ravaging of his body is the patriotic thing to do.

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Silver, Before I Kissed Him

Before the aesthetic of New Years Eve demanded a kiss, we had a first play date.

My first time in your apartment, I have teased you with a simple key necklace through the morning and previous night. I wonder now about my choice to play with you, as you whisk me away after social brunch in your car, but I have always had the ability to make adventures out of even mishaps. If it goes wrong I will laugh later.

It does not go wrong.

The purpose of this is couched light and easy, a bit of beating for me to blow off steam, nice and casual.

Getting to know you this way, you want ritual and you bring out bits of fantasy I didn’t ask for, but do not mind: submissive posing and acting just so. You kneel beside the couch, not on it until I pull you up, like you were a pet someone else house broke to have such good manners. When you do that I briefly imagine what other hands you were under where you learned that, like a third time shelter rescue with an inexplicable fear of orange shirts.

This is not the first time a partner came so pre-set, but I don’t find it as off putting as it had been with him.

I told you to wear a belt I could beat you with. You want to have tea for me, waiting on any little desire that you can please me with. You are more desperate for me to give you my needs than you are for an orgasm.

Meticulous control. You need to perform with a constance, like a shark always swimming forward. I hold a brief bit of intimidation in my head- two perfectionists squaring off, wondering if my skill will be disappointing, and I find the core of control in me, and with it confidence. Men seldom scare me.

I ask you if I should just follow my instincts or take things one step at a time, and you pick the first option. Good.

That’s probably the moment that undoes you, later, when you literally and metaphorically fell for me.

Down, your back on the carpet and I straddle you. I don’t think you have ever been touched that much by a woman. Pressing, seeking, exploring. Your hands are freezing and I put one to my neck and one to the dip of my waist.

I massage you and your back pops like firecrackers on a string. Your nose hovers inches from mine, but I won’t kiss you this time. Your body is mine now, and you have never been an object of this kind of desire before.

You stand in the trance of your own amazement, and although I do beat you, there is a moment that surprises us both where in our place on the floor the caress of my body against yours nestles the shaft of my tall, sleek black boot against your groin.

You press and are lost, rubbing, begging to come. I am a little flabbergasted at how early you move for this and tell you- ok but if you come, there goes your submissive feelings and I am not done beating you up. Was that what you wanted?

The possibility changes your intent, so you prove yourself a liar instead. He who said he was “not really a masochist” is back, bent over his cool granite counter and starting to shiver as my hits take your down yet further. You love this and the pain. You pass a test you didn’t know I set for you. I need you to want it.

I prefer masochists who get hard from my torture. I have never been attracted to the ones who endure just out of service.

And, a surprise: You bought a crop for me to use on you and almost sheepishly suggest it is available. I am perplexed of what to make of this. You are like a cork pushing back up against the water, a buoyant thrust back into my hand.

Normally I toss anyone who tries to back lead out with the brats. But… this is a lot more anticipation of what is incredibly useful, with the reassurance of an optimism you say you don’t understand. I don’t understand it, I am pessimistic and holding my needs and full self with guarded care.

I have a tiny little orgasm grinding and straddling you. So be it, this desire. I want you.

I offer you an orgasm, opening my sheer blouse. My breasts are, I wonder, an allure or just a way to show you another intimacy? There is a language here. 

I see your cock for the first time and you are notably pleased at my declaration of enjoyment, “oh my!”

We have not still kissed and I am sprawling on your carpet while you kneel. I touch myself, mostly those freed breasts. I wonder to your thoughts.

Later you will tell me you shocked yourself, at the electric moment when, earlier, you ground yourself against me, then met my eyes, saw not just my consent but enthusiasm, and from thence you were lost.

This is something incredibly new to you.

Aftercare has a stiffness to it. If we had opened with an elegance where you had knelt and cleaned my boots with all the polish and charm in the world… Here, when you are unsettled and I am still holding you, I find more I approve of, and more of what I need.

We have a simple dinner you buy me. I let you do what I usually won’t let, paying. You want to give and give. When we discussed this when I propositioned you, because of the ridiculous world we live in, although you didn’t ask, past experiences told me to tell you up front I wasn’t a pro dom.

My transportation home is delayed by the wet weather so you take me the three hours drive home, then back. I almost say no, but catch that before it lets me say otherwise. Three hours of pelting rain discussing old sci fi and fantasy. This is probably more open than you have been with anyone in a long time.

I think I like you as a person, at least the parts I have met, or easily sussed out, for all you hide them behind a seamless sheet of smooth granite. But I am still playing wait and see at this time and later months will take things further.

Valentine’s Roses From My Property

The rose stems bite into my palm as I hold and snap them off short enough to fit into the large water glass I have retrieved for that purpose.

Silver fumbles with plastic packages of sausages, cheese, olives and crackers, not because he is inherently clumsy, but because he’s distracted by the fact that I am here and keep teasing him. At one point he’s on all fours, and I hear a noise of head clearing whoozy breath, as he tries to focus on the task at hand. His cock is desperately and intensely thick with his arousal.

He leaks a pretty steady clear, clean trickle of precum when I get him worked up enough, curiously without much taste. At one point I note he’s dripping, he apologises and I laugh. I like it. Why shouldn’t I?

Me, I’m wet, easy and constant. How can I not be, looking at his lithe body, feeling him held easy under my hands, hearing is words, again and again, “I belong to Miss.”?

Over the two days I will drain him four times to see if I can. This is time four for us to “play” in person. Multiple times, seeing him hard, I consider mounting him then and there and depriving him of his formal virginity, but I continue to wait. It is not the right time.

I want him to tell me when he is ready.

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New Years Eve, A Sub & A (First) Kiss

Finding another kind of fireworks with a submissive's first time

Silver sits, stiffly, in a chair in a circle of the first comers to the party, and stands between the protection of a tall fan, and the edge of the television, his back to the wall. He is immersing himself in the gathering like a too hot bath, with the lure of my presence to bait him out and across the long drive over the border.

I promised him his first ever, real kiss, for New Years Eve. I wasn’t planning on moving that fast, still covered in Brick dust, still reeling from by what at turns was ripping off a bandaid and putting a kitten down, but when you find out that you have a perplexing puzzle box of a guy who is at once about the same level of perversity as you, has pursued it, and… has made it four decades without a kiss on the mouth, the Aesthetic demands sacrifice.

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